


abandon ship

by mistrali



Series: Malorie's Peak Prompts [10]
Category: Emelan - Tamora Pierce
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Pre-Canon, dark circle
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-09
Updated: 2020-10-09
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:21:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26909569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistrali/pseuds/mistrali
Summary: For MPP #44 at Glake, Rejection.Tris decides she’s had enough of people rejecting her.
Series: Malorie's Peak Prompts [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/46110
Comments: 4
Kudos: 10





	abandon ship

**Author's Note:**

> Warning for child neglect (as canon) and emotional abuse.

“Mila bless us. You’re wearing that?” said Marta. “Here, you can have mine. I don’t like them anyway.” She tossed her clothes carelessly onto Tris’ bed and smiled, obviously expecting a response. The overskirt was exactly the shade of goldenrod Tris detested, one that would clash with her hair. The blouse was olive-green with white stripes.

“Sorry about the colours,” said Marta, sweet as honey. “They’re the only ones that’ll fit you.” Marta and Nina had the tiniest smiles on their faces. 

Tris glared at the clothing, crimson with shame. She had to live here, but that didn’t mean she had to put up with people’s charity - or their teasing.

“I’ll use my own,” she said, breathless with rage, and flung the clothes down without regard to where they fell. She made a great show of spreading out her few skirts and blouses - all rough, dark serge or wool at six silver crescents the yard, half of them hand-me-downs from older cousins.

******

“She didn’t even say thank you, Papa. And then she threw them on the floor,” whined Marta, from somewhere downstairs.

“Tris has had a difficult time, Marta.” A sigh, then a pause, as if Uncle Murris were deciding what to say. “We need to make allowances.”

Tris felt herself redden. Make allowances, would they? By shoving her into a corner like an unwanted puppy? They hadn’t even invited her down to midday today, hadn’t even checked why she was hiding in the attic.

Her skirt began to rustle, and the pages of the book flicked back and forth, as if turned by an invisible hand. She looked out of the open window into the courtyard. The breeze was picking up, making the leaves eddy... 

“Tris, I want you dressed for supper.” That was Aunt Emmine’s squeak, like a mouse in a cheese barrel. “You need to look presentable for the Stone Circle Dedicate. And take the dog out before he makes a mess inside.”

“He’s a good dog,” mumbled Tris, in between sniffles, her face half-buried in Willem’s curly brown fur. “He knows to go outside to do his business.”

No one heard her. Aunt Emmine had already scurried away, not even pausing to look at her niece. Probably afraid I’ll make it hail, thought Tris snidely, and destroy her precious warehouses.

She smiled. Let whoever wanted to take her away this time get a nice surprise when she wasn’t there!

She let the dog out, after cuddling him again and whispering apologies. At least they’d look after him - Tris couldn’t abide people who were cruel to animals - but he’d be the only creature she’d miss in this whole awful house.

She went into the room she shared with her cousins and retrieved her bag, still almost packed. It was about five o’clock, so she had a few hours before anyone noticed she was gone.

Not that anyone would care. She gazed at Marta’s clothes, all hung and folded neatly. She bet that violet dress had cost eight silver astrels. Tris hesitated, fingers hovering over the lengths of silk in her cousin’s wardrobe, then thought better of it. She wasn’t a thief.

Hurriedly she wrapped her head in a piece of cloth, like some Trader women wore, and dragged on her oldest, ugliest woollen dress. With a prayer to Runog and Asaia - neither knowledge nor a good strong wind to blow the ships into harbour would go astray - she crept towards the servants’ entrance.


End file.
